


Lebkuchen

by angel921



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21792271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel921/pseuds/angel921
Summary: What is a professor of the sciences to do when the year is 1892 and the city around him is decaying?
Relationships: Kim Jongdae | Chen/Zhang Yi Xing | Lay, Zhang Yi Xing | Lay & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 5
Collections: The Xingmas Daes 2019





	Lebkuchen

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for the Xingmas Daes 2019. It is a completely re-worked version of a story I wrote a few years ago and I can only hope you all will find something to appreciate in it!
> 
> Lebkuchen is a German cake dating back to the 1500s usually made from honey, ginger, nuts, and candied fruit. The origin of the name is relatively unknown, but it may be derived from the German words for Leben (life) and kuchen (cake).

Villingsnair, London (England) 1892

Lay Zhang hated London. 

He hated the smog of up-and-coming textile factories. He hated the cesspools lying within a hair’s breadth of his coattails. He hated the bodies of the morbidly sick littering Worthing Street. Of the many despicable things in London there was nothing he quite detested like Christmas. It was a season unmistaken by Bohemian tree decorating and watts of electricity that went to waste by the thousands for one month of blinding lights and tinsel. And how could one forget the gifting? It was a tradition most foul that burned through his comfortably lined velvet pockets every year. Every bloody soul was deserving of a Christmas gift, never mind that many spoke ill of him and turned their noses at his research findings the remainder of the year. 

It was four o'clock on a brisk 24th of December, in the year 1892. He should have been asleep, quite frankly, but some inexplicable restlessness had stirred Lay to pull on his coat and wander about the streets. There was no telling what exactly was the cause of the disturbance. Things had been no better or worse than usual and he had long since grown accustomed to the isolation brought on by his latest quest to expand on Faraday’s Law of Induction, yet, here he was at the witching hour, mind you, caught between his customary surveyance of a dreary London and the dawn of the Christmas Market frenzy. Slush oozed between the cobblestones and every well-meaning salesman was setting up shop, casting glances at the decorated professor of the sciences whom they knew would sooner keel over than trade a penny for a bourgeois fruitcake. He was rather surprised to have women scuttle past him, clad from head to toe in their best seasonal furs, harping about Sueman Lee's boutique and squabbling over which chef would make the tastiest figgy pudding this year, (certainly Ms. Kang of Wiltshire served the finest pudding in all of England that scrimpy Christmas of ‘81, what with that Chef Doh at the helm of her kitchen). 

Lay approached a comparably peaceful nook of the town and stopped to sit at an old park bench, well worn, shying from company larger than a lonely young man. Small crinkles of skin formed near his eyes as he shut them tightly, allowing the first snowfall to slide across his cheeks. The wooden bench he occupied was already wet by some of its melting flakes and the cold water seeped through his trousers but he couldn’t be bothered to move himself elsewhere. His fingers unlocked to straighten the silk ascot his wife had haphazardly tied around his neck before he set out. The woman’s concern was well warranted considering the death toll sweeping London as of late.

"Victoria." The name came out softer than a whisper from his dried lips. He breathed another and yet another white cloud bearing her name into the gray sky. She was the gentlest creature he knew, with eyes clear as glass, wise beyond their years, the only pair to dismantle the barriers he built between himself and the outside world. He thought about her hair, like waves of black silk, flowing gently over his skin whenever she shifted underneath him. She never faced him without a smile, and what a smile it was, comparable to the pristine skies and buttery sunsets of her Welsh hometown. But there were times that sun drowned itself in rain. There were times she'd draw out a pair of knitted garments, no longer than his hand and a cap the size of an apple, and cry, and the way she cried, it ached his heart. 

"Sir, of all the places one could be, why here? It's Christmas Eve, don't you know? Go home, it'll be nice and warm there,” a voice said. It was light and cheery, like tinkling gold bells. 

Lay ground the leather sole of his boot into the powdery snow. He didn't bother to glance at the speaker. "Why do you assume my home is filled with warmth. Do you know the first thing about London, Stranger? This bloody cold is doing away with us all, one by one" he mumbled, thinking back to the corpses lying on the corner of Worthing and Bearings.

Without so much as a warning, two hands speckled with moles shoved a warm, fragrant package the size of a loaf at his chest. Those very hands then reached out to cradle his bewildered face in an embrace that put even the caress of silk to shame. Startled by the intimate gesture, Lay abruptly glanced up. It was a young man, poorly dressed, if one might add. He wore no coat, just a white robe of sorts, no boots, and no stockings to keep his legs warm. A gold band circled about his forehead, hidden in part by shocks of Auburn curls spilling from his head to frame his pale face.

"Wh-who are you?" Lay stammered. He tugged at the stranger’s hands but the man, young as he apperead, possessed a grip so firm that they refused to budge. His fingers gently padded Lay’s skin and when he cocked his head in curiosity, he turned gingerly the professor’s face as well. 

“I have been called by many names throughout the ages. The one who sent me, however, He calls me Jongdae,” he said in a voice so mesmerizing, it was nearly inhuman, akin to that of some otherworldly creature. 

"I am the one He calls the great bell, a bringer of glad tidings always," Jongdae said. He twirled about in a flurry of snow, each rising flake seeming to obey his every whim. Had it been any other, Lay would have found the performance quite dramatic but the this display before him was nothing short of breathtaking. He stood like a beacon of light in stark contrast to the drab Londoners and grayish landscapes Lay had grown sick to his stomach of seeing. 

Jongdae leaned forward, bridging the gap between himself and Lay to a sliver. Contrary to his uptight, conservative demeanor, Lay found himself at ease in proximity to this stranger. Jongdae did not elicit in him a disclplined shame or a feeling of discomfort, rather, he exuded a perplexing kind of warmth and peace that coaxed Lay. Even the white breaths unfurling from his lips were beginning to take the shape of church bells, he thought. 

"I have given you a gift that will bring you unspeakable joy in time. Now go, return to your London. Life awaits," Jongdae said. He raised Lay’s chin with a tender smile and to the bewilderment of the latter, pressed his forehead to his own endearingly. It was a gesture so full of goodwill and innocence, much of the ice surrounding the professor’s heart vanished right then. Then as discreetly as he had appeared, Jongdae took his leave. He followed a path covered in snowfall, seemingly to nowhere, as though he carried a proposition for the world to grant him a safe journey home, (wherever that might have been). Lay trailed after him for all but a few moments before he seemingly vanished into the dusk. 

Lay returned to Zhang Manor not long, all the while pondering his encounter with Jongdae. With a hand to guard the package tucked inside the breast of his inner coat, he took a stride or so towards his stately home and suddenly paused there to reflect. The many times he had come to this position of standing on Bearing Street, he had not once failed to complain of the smog emanating from the factory three blocks down and the putrid smell of market fish handled carelessly by its merchants. He had also boxed a few stubborn boyish ears and rendered them one stolen newspaper less. This time, however, the corner of his drawn mouth twitched ever so slightly when a group of carol singers received a pint of nog from the bakery that was mediocre at best. This time, he raised his eyebrows in surprise when a newspaper was handed to him by a toothless ruffian with a “Happy Christmas to you, Professor.” 

In his home roaring fires warmed the vast structure to create an atmosphere unlike he’d happened upon since his youth. Victoria, uncharacteristically cheerful, twirled about in a lovely green velvet, preparing their grand dining table for a meager company of two. 

"You've tired of wandering sooner this time," she said. Lay felt his heart race for the first time in years as she glided across the room to relieve him of the coat and package now in his hands. 

"Oh? Now what could this be? Certainly not market goods? Smelling of ginger and honey, at that. I vaguely recall a certain professor lecturing me that buying from the stalls was beneath him.” 

Lay cleared his throat, "I met a gentleman while I was out and about. Some artisan or the like,” he replied hastily. 

Her eyes widened upon unwrapping the package. A small round cake, brown in color with slivered almonds and a generous dusting of sugar slid into her awaiting hands. Her husband, being quite the finicky eater that he was, never bothered to buy delicacies himself. It was their chef’s duty, after all, to acquire ingredients and prepare meals at which his emplyer would not upturn his nose. 

Her impatient fingers pried at the soft ginger cake and despite his efforts to lecture her about moderation, Lay was unsuccessful in convincing Victoria to part with it. She spent their Christmas dinner consuming the entire thing ravenously.

January of 1893

Victoria tossed and turned beside her husband who, to her dismay, was snoring soundly beside her. She wasn’t one to fall ill with ease and this particular bout was all the more worrisome in light of recent events. Try as she did, she could not ignore the sour bile rising in her throat. Without so much as a second thought, she scrambled for the maids who in turn fetched her a bucket and looked on with stony faces as she heaved the contents of her stomach into it. She nodded gingerly when one of the older women suggested they send for a doctor at once.

"Are you inside, Dear?” Lay called. He had been rapping on the parlor door for several minutes, shuffling from one foot to the other to no avail. There were several hushed voices, all speaking at once and he was rather curious as to what was transpiring inside. 

After what seemed to him an eternity, the door eventually creaked open to reveal a crumpled heap on the floor, with no more than a muffled cry escaping her lips. A maid stood by looking on with a wry smile but she did little to tend to the young woman who was seemingly in a state of despair. 

"What is the meaning of this? Why are you standing there like a statue while my wife is distraught?” Lay asked.

The maid lowered her head, maintaining her silence as the master of the house hastily made his way across the room.

Victoria firmly tugged her husband’s robe and he immediately knelt down to meet her gaze. As one who was not wont to physical affection, Lay was greatly surprised when she linked her arms around his narrow waist and murmured incoherently into the crook of his neck. Had there not been a maid in the room, he would have embraced her a bit more comfortably but he found himself terribly flustered when her small hands crept their way to his bare chest. Although hesitant at first, he began to stroke her tresses lovingly, whispering soft words into them in spite of the shame eating away at his pride. 

If only his punctilious colleagues could see him in such a position. 

Suddenly, there was a loud thud at his back and the earsplitting sound of a china piece hitting the marbled floor. Lay cursed himself for conducting himself in such an unbridled manner when he caught a glimpse of the additional company in the room. Dr. Kim, who had returned to collect his medical tools offered him a sheepish grin and a silent apology for causing a disturbance.

"Mr. Zhang, I’ll take my leave then. It seems you’re well versed in caring for a woman with child!”


End file.
